


I could sleep inside the cold of you

by anythingbutgrief



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-03
Updated: 2014-01-03
Packaged: 2018-01-07 05:51:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,795
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1116277
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anythingbutgrief/pseuds/anythingbutgrief
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Short winter-fic</p>
            </blockquote>





	I could sleep inside the cold of you

"Whose bright idea was it to go camping in the middle of December again?" The doors to Mickey’s cousin’s friend’s car were shut against the cold, but the engine was off and the windows were frosted up already.

The glare Mickey gifted him with could have withered plants, if any were still alive under the ice and snow outside. “We’re not camping, Gallagher.”

"Hmmmmmm. Sleeping bag, wilderness, hot chocolate. All signs point to—"

"I didn’t bring any hot chocolate, asshole."

Ian smiled. “Didn’t say you did.” He reached into the backseat and pulled out a tall thermos, warm against his fingertips.

"Are you serious?" Ian felt his own smile go wider at the cracks in Mickey’s exterior at that, his eyes widening and cheeks reddening slightly in surprised delight. Ian unscrewed the top of the thermos, inhaling the thick chocolate smell deep into his lungs, breathing out a contented sigh in Mickey’s direction as an answer.

Mickey stuck his hand out expectantly. “Well, hand it over, then.” When Ian didn’t immediately follow instructions, he reached forward to grab it himself, but Ian pulled his arm away, just out of reach. “Come on, I’m thirsty.”

Ian hummed, pretending to consider his options. “Hmmm, not until you admit that this is a camping trip.”

Mickey scowled and reached further over to snatch at Ian’s hand, but not quite far enough. “It’s not a camping trip. My house is full and I need to get fucked, okay, so just give me—”

Ian stretched his hand out behind the headrest of the seat, contorted at an uncomfortable angle to keep the drink out of Mickey’s hands. “What’s going on at your house?”

Mickey shrugged. “Cousins and brothers get drunk together around Christmas. Sometimes the gun club comes around.”

Ian bit his lip, trying to reconcile warring images of happy holiday family gatherings, his own siblings bunched together around the television set, passing popcorn back and forth, with the interchangeable zombie horde he pictured when he thought of the non-Mickey-or-Mandy Milkoviches. “Is it fun?” 

Mickey shrugged. “Sure, whatever.”

Ian grinned, pulling the hot chocolate back into his lap. He wanted to make some stupid sly joke about Mickey choosing him over his drunken family holiday, about how he’d chosen to freeze in the middle of nowhere with him when he didn’t have to, but he bit his lip and offered the thermos over. “Don’t drink it all.”

Mickey lit up, beaming so cutely as he grabbed the thermos and brought it to his lips that Ian wanted to compare him to a blinking Christmas light, to Rudolph’s glowing nose, but he limited himself to staring at him stupidly instead. Mickey took a few huge gulps, gasping loudly when he pulled away like he’d suffocated himself in chocolate, and wiped the lips with the sleeve of his sweatshirt. He turned to catch Ian smiling fondly at him and, instead of telling him to fuck off, like Ian expected, his face adopted that stupid wicked grin, all toothy like the wolf in the fairytale, before gracelessly clambering over the center console to the backseat, knocking Ian in the shoulder with his foot in the process. “Get the fuck back here, come on.”

Ian slid into the back, much less violently than Mickey had, and immediately set on pulling Mickey’s sweatshirt over his head. He only had a short-sleeve shirt on underneath and shivered; Ian’s hands came up unthinkingly to rub the exposed bare skin. Mickey pushed the hands way gently, lying back on the surface of the seat and making room for Ian in between his legs. Ian moved forward, mouth falling open to mouth at his neck, when he spotted a round pink scar just below Mickey’s collarbone. It couldn’t have been that old because Ian didn’t remember it, and he never forgot things about Mickey’s body. He ran his finger around the borders in silent question without looking up, and Mickey murmured, “Cigarette.”

"You drop it on yourself?"

He glanced up after a few seconds of silence. Mickey was chewing on his bottom lip, digging into it for a few moments more before shaking his head. Ian felt the contents of his stomach curdle and then burn in anger, but said nothing. He pushed his hands under and up the T-shirt, revealing the skin of his torso without pulling the shirt off entirely. Ian admired the ridges of his chest and stomach for a second before his eyes fell on a big fat yellow-and-purple bruise on his left side. Mickey’s ribs tensed when Ian placed his fingers over the skin. “This why you’re not home?”

Mickey’s face went hard but he didn’t move out of Ian’s grasp like he’d expected him to. “Fuck off, Gallagher.”

Ian clenched his jaw but swallowed the words on his tongue, moving his hands down to unbutton Mickey’s jeans. Mickey hissed as his pants were pulled down, and Ian froze for a second, then took stock of the way Mickey’s thighs shook against the cold surface of the backseat, before pulling the pants back up. Mickey immediately began to protest, “No, no, come on, it’s fine…”

Ian sat back on his heels and shook his head. “Mickey, one day you’re going to literally freeze your ass off, but it’s not going to happen on my watch.”

Mickey sighed and pulled away, zipping his fly back up and putting his hands into his pockets. “Well, I ain’t driving back tonight. It’s too fucking icy and dark for that shit.”

Ian just nodded, disappointed that he couldn’t give him whatever tiny piece of temporary joy to distract him from the pain. He reached over into the front seat and grabbed the thermos, balancing it in between his knees.

"I’m tired," Mickey said after a minute, voice low and honest, like he wasn’t just talking about tonight.

"I know," Ian murmured back. He sat still for another moment, watching Mickey from the corner of his eye, before reaching down to pull the sleeping bag from the floor of the car and spreading it out on his half of the seat. "C’mere."

Mickey stared at him for a moment, then moved to sit next to Ian with his head ducked, eyes avoiding eyes. Ian pushed the thermos back into Mickey’s hand. “Finish it.”

Mickey eyed him suspiciously, like it was a trap to prove selfishness. “You said—”

"I don’t want it. Go on."

Mickey rolled his eyes, but they shut closed as he tipped his head back to drink. Ian took the opportunity to plaster his own body flat against the backseat, legs stretched out as far as they could go. Mickey finished the hot chocolate and put empty thermos on the floor before turning to stare curiously at Ian. “You gonna take up the whole fucking car?” Ian glanced down at the empty space in the bag, on the second half of the seat, and looked back up meaningfully.

Mickey sighed and pushed a hand through his messy hair, glancing about the car in ten different directions, as if he were looking for possible spectators or an escape hatch. But after a few seconds he muttered under his breath, “Fuck it,” and Ian faked a yawn to cover the smile that threatened to overtake his entire face at the sound.

Mickey slipped in beside him, leaving an inch of space between their bodies in the bag. Ian stared at the back of his neck for a moment, watched the way his ribs rose and fell through his shirt, and saw how the little hairs on his arms and nape stood at attention. It couldn’t be helped; Ian gave in, using his arm to pull Mickey back flush against him.

"You’re ridiculous," Mickey muttered, but Ian felt the way he pushed back into his touch.

He brought his hand down to rest on Mickey’s stomach, fingers tracing a slow, circular pattern through his shirt. “You like it,” he whispered into his ear.

"Mm." Ian relished the noise; whether involuntary note of pleasure or lazy sign of assent, he would take it.

Keeping his hand moving, Ian pressed his face into Mickey’s neck. “You know, at my house, it’s always loud at Christmas.”

"Yeah?"

"Uh-huh, and it gets cluttered, even though we can’t really buy new things."

"Ours, too," Mickey said, voice getting lower and slower in his relaxed state. "But we just steal new shit."

Ian laughed lightly and paused in his talking, spending a minute quietly rubbing circles. “I love my family, but it’s nice to be away from the crowd for a bit,” he said after the pause.

"Yeah," Mickey breathed out again, sounding seconds away from sleep.

"I don’t want it to be crowded like that all the time. And when I’m older and have money and stuff, I don’t want a house. I just want an apartment high enough to see the city." Ian swallowed, wondering if Mickey knew how dry his mouth had gotten, but pressed on. "Big windows. So that on days like this I could just go up and watch the snow fall while it’s still in the sky, and keep warm. Just like this."

"Sounds nice," Mickey mumbled.

"But it doesn’t have to be like that. If you want it to be something different, we could…" Ian whispered, heart pounding.

"No, that’s fine. We’ll do that," Mickey murmured, and Ian didn’t know if he was really listening anymore, but it didn’t matter. He’d heard what he needed to, and his chest felt warmer than summer in Florida.

Ian pressed a kiss to the skin behind Mickey’s ear. “I can’t wait.”

"Me either," Mickey said back, his hand coming up to touch Ian’s fingers for a moment before falling slack as his breathing finally evened out.

Ian didn’t fall asleep for a while, taking in the new image of a completely relaxed Mickey, drained of his stress and his effort and his bravado. He knew he couldn’t talk to Mickey about this in the morning, couldn’t say things like “years from now, in our apartment,” like he already ached to say out loud. He dropped a line of kisses along Mickey’s hairline and thought to himself that he should stamp the habit out now and not think of it so much, a future with Mickey, stop thinking in words like “we” and “our” and “us.” But Mickey shifted closer to him in his sleep, turning his head to press half of his face into Ian’s warmth, and the belief in Ian’s heart seared through him like the first shot of sunlight, sang clearer than any hymn. “I can wait,” Ian whispered, kissing the tip of Mickey’s ear, closing his eyes and missing the way the other boy’s mouth curved into a smile.

**Author's Note:**

> This was posted on my tumblr a few weeks ago and I'm putting it here now in the interest of having my fics in one place.


End file.
